


jalapeño business

by michelllejones



Series: a series of (un)fortunate events [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, bev is a really really good friend, eddie is confused, richie has a bad case of the munchies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelllejones/pseuds/michelllejones
Summary: "God, your shorts are very distracting. Like, really. You can’t walk around with legs like that and expect people not to be distracted,” Richie reasons, as if that’s a relevant point to make right this very second and gestures toward the guys legs, “I gave you the Pringles on accident. I didn’t know it was the last can. They are my last chance at survival, literally, because I forced Bev to walk over here and she kind of has this thing where can’t move when she’s high—it’s a little worrying actually, like she really cannot move—and now I don’t have them because you do and if you don’t give them to me my life is over.”orrichie is really high and eddie is distracting.





	jalapeño business

**Author's Note:**

> it's a bad pun... i know
> 
> i briefly edited this b4 posting so sorry if there are mistakes!!!
> 
> ps i highly suggest trying jalapeño pringles they are a godsend

There are only two things in life that Richie Tozier swears he needs to survive—both of which happen to be, in no way at all, directly correlated to sustaining a human life. Or any life, really. Yet, he insists, that without marijuana and it’s mind-numbing competence, or Beverly and her strange way of always knowing just what to say and when, he would be dead.

He comes to this realization—that he needs both the comfort weed brings and security that his best friend does—when he is, indeed, in the company of both Beverly and his most beloved plant. 

They stand huddled together underneath the practically abandoned stairwell of Richie’s dormitory building as they split a joint between the two of them. Richie wishes they could be smoking literally anywhere else, but blowing the smoke out of his window is too risky, especially with how much his RA has been up his ass lately, and it started raining the second Beverly suggested their usual spot behind the dumpsters. So, deteriorating staircase it was. 

It’s fucking freezing—the kind of bitter cold that claws at your skin and freezes your bones stiff. Richie hates it—he can’t stand being cold—but his bitterness fades (slightly) when he takes a drag from the blunt in his hands. The smoke burns his lungs but warms his insides, and he coughs more than he would like to admit, but he loves the sensation nonetheless. He passes Beverly the joint and relishes in the familiar sting he feels in his chest.

“Bev, I really wish you had a car,” he grumbles, watches her with a careful eye as she cups the butt of the joint and waits for him to light it for her. It takes longer than it should for the flame to catch, because it’s so fucking windy outside and every time he comes close to igniting it, it dissipates in the breeze.

When the lighter manages to stay lit for more than two seconds, Beverly leans the edge of the blunt in closer and inhales a little too quickly. She ends up choking on the smoke as it exits her throat. Richie tries not to laugh, but fails, since he’s already had a few hits and is definitely falling victim to the intoxication he feels bubbling inside his chest. As much as he’d love to argue that he’s immune to it because _fuck you, Stan, I can handle my weed._

When she recovers, she gives him a playful shove and says “I had one, remember? We killed her when _you_ left the sunroof open and she drowned.” 

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbles, pushes his lips out thoughtfully, “fuck. I’m a murderer.”

“It’s okay,” Beverly giggles, “I ruled it as involuntary car-slaughter. I should’ve never let you convince me to let you stick your head out of it in the first place,” she concedes with a snort.

“I was trying to recreate that _Perks of Being a Wallflower_ scene!” 

“It was embarrassing,” she tells him with a fond smile. Richie nudges her with his shoulder in lieu of a response and as they share the joint, they find themselves in a comfortable silence.

Which is when Richie has the time to dwell on the fact that he loves Beverly a whole lot, and he loves that she’s been his partner in crime—for lack of a better word—since they met even more. This is also when he realizes how agonizingly hungry he is.

Okay, so maybe he needs three things to survive: Bev, weed, and finally, some good fucking food.

He gets an idea—albeit not a very good one, considering the pact he made with Stan a long time ago to stop shoving high-calorie foods into his mouth while under the influence of marijuana—and slaps his hands onto Beverly’s shoulders with a loud _smack_.

“Pringles!” 

Beverly blinks up at him, nonplussed, as she tries to make sense of his unprecedented outburst. Her eyes are big and blue and rimmed red and scream _what the fuck are you talking about?_ while they stand there underneath the stairwell, very high and very cold. 

Maybe, if he were sober, standing in forty-something degree weather would be enough to piss him off. His skin would itch and his leg would do that incessant tapping that drives Stan absolutely insane. However, the countless numbers of hits he had taken moments previously are hitting him all at once, and all he can think of is how he could literally kill someone for a can of jalapeño Pringles right now. He doesn't even feel the bleak winter air as it nips at his nose and numbs his fingertips—all he can focus on is the unbearable emptiness in his stomach. And the lack of crisp, spicy chips in it.

“I need them,” is all that Richie says to Bev before he tosses the joint to the ground, spins on his heel and starts in the direction of the corner store on campus.

“Richie!”

He knows he should probably fight the craving, since he’s high as hell and anybody walking by can tell, but he’s not going to, because he’s so fucking hungry that he can barely think straight and he suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to inhale approximately one hundred Pringles into his mouth that very second or he will drop dead.

He knows Bev isn't too far behind when he hears her complain about how cold it is and how she’s _too high for this shit_ in a tone that tells him she doesn't actually mind. He laughs in spite of her, but doesn't say anything back. Besides, he’s far too engrossed in his quest to find and treat himself to what he swears are the best flavor of chip in the whole, god-damned universe. No matter how many times Stan argues that it’s actually Cool Ranch Doritos. Richie rolls his eyes at the thought. What does Stan know? He eats peas—and enjoys them. No sane person does that. 

When the pair finally reach the sacred twenty-four hour corner store near the library, Richie is numb from head to toe and Beverly is whining about how bad her feet hurt. 

Richie nearly drops to his knees as he approaches the doors. He’s never been so thankful for anything in his entire life.

It feels like it’s taken them a lifetime to get here, like they've walked a whole fucking marathon (it’s only half a mile—barely), but he’s so God damn excited that he doesn't care how long it took them. All he cares about is getting what he came here for. 

Jalapeño fucking Pringles. 

Yeah, maybe the journey nearly turns him and Bev into icicles, but it’s going to be so fucking worth it when that first chip touches his tongue and blesses his taste buds. He swears it.

Richie’s mouth starts to water at the thought, and he can’t wait. Not anymore. He has to get them—needs to. It’s his duty. His mission. His destiny. 

With a determination similar to that of when the idea first popped into his head all those minutes ago, Richie practically sprints across the deserted store and heads straight for the chip and snack aisle. Beverly struggles to keep up with him, even attempts to jog just to match his pace, which is impressive, considering that smoking makes her remarkably immobile. Like, can’t-even-get-up-to-get-herself-food immobile. It’s amazing that she’s even kept up with him at all. Honestly, Richie would commend her for her swiftness if he weren't so dead set on finding those Pringles. 

As he spots the various bags of chips and every brand of junk food known to man, his heart just about jumps out of his chest. Among them are God’s best creation: jalapeño Pringles. He can’t remember the last time he’d been this excited to buy a can of chips. He’s not a hard man to please, but he’s well aware that his child-like anticipation has almost everything to do with the fact that he’s high. Which he keeps forgetting, despite the fact that he’s got a horrible case of cotton mouth and he hasn't stopped giggling since he stepped through the doors of the drugstore.

“Rich,” Beverly croaks from behind him, and breathes like she did in fact just run a marathon. “Slow the fuck down!” 

Richie shouts “No-can-do!” over his shoulder much louder than necessary, and doesn’t slow down. He can’t slow down. He’s Lightning McQueen on his last lap, and the Pringles are the finish line. Ca-fucking-chow. 

Beverly flips him off and stops dead in her tracks. “I’m waiting here,” she huffs and folds her arms over her chest. She looks so much like a pouty toddler that Richie is almost tempted to turn around, pinch her cheeks and coo at her like a mother does her baby. Except Richie doesn't really feel like getting punched in the gut, so he wisely decides _not_ to do that. Plus, he’s got delectable chips to track down. 

A giddy feeling courses through him as he races toward the section in which his precious Pringles reside, sees the familiar noseless, mustache clad man and the warm yellow glow of the famously printed logo. Words simply cannot describe the absolute joy that warms his chest at the sight of them. 

All he can see is the light green container of chips he’s been nonstop thinking about (for a total of twenty minutes) as he makes a beeline for them. Finally, his excruciating hunger can be cured. The hollowness of his insides will be filled. His life will be complete. Sure, he’s about to be five dollars poorer, but God—it’s gonna be so worth it. He doesn’t even care. He would spend fifty dollars on them if he had to. 

It’s the last can, and they are going to be all his. Tears spring to his eyes he’s so fucking happy—

“—fuck you, Hanlon. You know how I feel about Oreos. They’re a fucking disgrace,” a voice shouts from somewhere behind him, and Richie’s entire body freezes with fear. Where the _fuck_ did that just come from?

He could’ve sworn the store was empty when he and Bev walked in. Oh, shit. What if it’s a ghost? God he fucking hopes it’s not—he doesn't think he can handle fighting off a ghost right now. Not on an empty stomach, no fucking way. He’s as good as dead. 

Okay, no—whoever said that is definitely not a ghost. That much is obvious when Richie finally looks at him. There’s absolutely no way; his skin is way too tan for him to be and Richie is at least smart enough to know that apparitions aren’t solid figures. They’re like, see-through or something. This kid is definitely not see-through. 

Half tempted to reach out and poke him to test this theory, the sober part of Richie forces his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Touching strangers to see if they're real or not is definitely not normal. Or polite. 

When the not-ghost gets close enough, though, Richie is slightly taken aback by how fucking adorable he is. _Adorable_ , because he’s practically two feet tall (he’s a normal height, Richie is just dramatic) and is wearing what Richie can only describe as the cutest outfit ever in the entire history of cute outfits. Seriously, he’s wearing a big yellow sweater and—Richie blinks a couple times behind the lenses of his glasses to make sure he’s not imagining this—shit you not, the little guy is wearing God damn running shorts. _Short_ running shorts. Like, _1980-basketball-player short_. 

He’s so intrigued that he can’t stop himself when he blurts “aren’t you cold?” in a voice that doesn’t really sound like his. With his eyes still transfixed on the black material of the guy’s shorts, he doesn’t catch the look of disapproval that paves its way onto said guys face.

“Uh, no?” He responds with furrowed brows. He gives Richie a strange look, but all Richie can do is stare at his shorts, so he still doesn’t notice.

There is no part of him that believes that at all. “How?” 

Another weird look. Richie catches it now. This time he crinkles his nose a little bit and Richie thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“I’m just… not, I guess,” he shrugs and then looks up at the Pringles that Richie has momentarily forgotten. He’s got far more important things on his mind now. Things that have everything to do with the sweater and tiny short wearing boy of his dreams. 

(He’s just decided this)

“‘Scuse me,” the guy mumbles awkwardly and moves closer to the Pringles, waits for Richie to step out of the way.

When he goes to grab them off the shelf—he’s standing on the _tips_ of his _toes_ and Richie swears if he gets any cuter he’ll just have to kiss him—Richie acts without thinking and grabs them for him. Hands the container to him with droopy eyes and a lopsided grin. Later, when he’s sober and thinking clearly, he’ll blame this behavior on the joint he smoked. Right now, in this very moment, though, he seriously thinks he might be in love with Sweater Boy. Especially when he’s so close that Richie can spot soft freckles on his face and the blush in his cheeks. Oh, my God—he cannot wait to tell Beverly about him. 

“Uh,” the stranger who’s just stolen Richie’s heart right from his chest blinks, clearly surprised by the gesture and murmurs a quick “thanks” to him, but it sounds more like a question. Then, before Richie can say anything else, he walks down the aisle, screams “Hold on, I’m coming!” to someone Richie does not know and disappears around the corner. 

For a moment, Richie stands in the middle of the aisle and stares in the direction of where the love of his life stood just seconds ago. He didn't even get a chance to ask for his name. Damn it. He really needs to stop falling in love with strangers. It’s excruciating. 

All thoughts regarding Pringles forgotten, Richie saunters back toward Beverly with a slight frown and deflated shoulders. Scolds himself for his inability to make conversation when he’s high. Though, there’s no guarantee that sobriety would have made it any better. 

Shoulders heaving with a sigh, Richie blinks down at Beverly through the lenses of his glasses as he approaches her. 

She looks down at his hands, and then meets his gaze, brows raised. 

“Bev. Bev,” Richie ignores her confused expression, leans his head to the side, “I just saw,” he gives another longing sigh, “the cutest fucking guy in the entire world. He was wearing _running shorts_. You should’ve seen him.” 

Bev looks up at him, unamused, and rolls her eyes. “We _talked_ ,” Richie tells her, “he’s the love of my life,” he concedes with a dreamy look in his eyes. 

“I’m sure,” Bev deadpans, then looks to his hands again, which are dangling at his sides. “Where are the Pringles?” 

“Huh?” Richie furrows his eyebrows.

“The Pringles you made me walk all the way over here for?” she tries again with a glare. “I swear, if we threw that joint away for nothing—which by the way, so not cool—I will shave your head in your sleep. Straight down the middle. Reverse mohawk style. And I mean that Richard,” she threatens and jabs a finger into his chest. 

Now it’s Richie’s turn to be confused. Somewhere, in the back of his foggy mind, there is a faint memory of him (mind you, this was only thirty minutes ago) saying something to Bev about chips. _Were they Pringles?_ He’s not too sure… 

Then, the bell above the door rings in his ears and he catches a newly familiar pair of running shorts walking past him, and it’s like a light bulb clicks on inside of his brain: he brought himself and Beverly here to buy chips, found said chips and gave them away to a cute boy with freckles and short shorts.

“Fuck!” Richie cries out dramatically, and Bev jumps back at the sudden outburst, eyebrows disappearing into her hair and eyes wide. She jumps again, her initial shock replaced with extreme irritation when Richie shoves past her and races through the exit frantically. 

Sweater Boy not only stole Richie’s heart, but he stole _his_ Pringles, too! Okay—he didn't steal them, Richie actually gave them to him, but still! Those were his, and damn him if he lets himself be finessed by some adorable guy with big brown eyes. Not. On. His. Watch.

“Wait wait wait!” He calls, more like screams, after the Pringle and Heart thief as he and some other guy Richie doesn’t recognize walk down the sidewalk and talk amongst themselves. 

They stop, but not before a look is shared between them and the taller guy says something like “maybe we should keep walking” and then Richie’s met with the puppy dog eyes that captured his soul just minutes before. 

“Those Pringles—“ Richie sputters because he didn’t really establish a plan prior to running after him and now he’s not sure what the fuck he’s supposed to say, “they’re mine,” he finishes lamely, and if he weren’t high he would be smacking himself. 

Pretty Brown Eyes blinks up at Richie, nonplussed, and behind him, he thinks he sees his friend give him a disapproving look. But the guy’s so handsome and soft looking that Richie can’t find it in him to defend himself. “What?” 

Flustered and panicked, Richie waves a finger in the direction of the plastic grocery bag that is holding his chips captive. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I need them.”

An incredulous look is thrown his way. “You need them?”

Richie nods vigorously. “Please... my friend, she’ll kill me.” He remembers Beverly then, and visibly cringes. He can already hear the never-ending list threats and insults she’s going to throw at him later. 

“Over _Pringles_?” Soft and Handsome man says, trying and failing to hide his laugh behind a closed fist. 

Richie feels very, very stupid. But he has to have those Pringles—they are practically his lifeline at this point. Without them, Beverly will murder him. He knows she will.

(The thought that he can just go back into the store and buy a different flavor hasn’t occurred to him just yet. There’s a chance it never will)

“If you wanted them then why did you _give_ them to me?” The smaller one challenges, crosses his arms over his chest and attempts to look menacing. Richie, however, can’t help but think about how fucking precious the crinkle between his eyebrows is. God, he could kiss him. He wants to kiss him. 

“Uh...” now he’s at a loss, especially because he’s momentarily forgotten what they’re discussing since he’s spent the last thirty seconds thinking about kissing this total stranger. This beautiful, flustered, angel of a stranger. He pauses for a moment, thinks he should probably just start from the beginning. “Look, I’m gonna be totally honest with you shorty—“

“ _Shorty_?” 

“—I’m high as hell and I don’t really know what the fuck is going on. I mean, I kind of do. But like, well, you know like when you’re high? And you are having sober thoughts and high thoughts at the same time—“ there’s a snort of amusement at this comment from Short Short’s friend, “and everything is all fuzzy and then you get an idea and suddenly you _have_ to go through with it. Well, that’s my predicament. I really fucking need jalapeño flavored Pringles. I am pretty sure I’m going to die without them. I don’t know, I’m really high and seriously—God, your shorts are very distracting. Like, really. You can’t walk around with legs like that and expect people not to be distracted,” Richie reasons, as if that’s a relevant point to make right this very second and gestures toward the guys legs, “I gave you the Pringles on accident. I didn’t know it was the last can. They are my last chance at survival, literally, because I forced Bev to walk over here and she kind of has this thing where can’t move when she’s high—it’s a little worrying actually, like she really cannot move—and now I don’t have them because you do and if you don’t give them to me my life is over.”

After he completes his rambling monologue, there is a long silence of pure disbelief and slight amusement. Two pairs of brown eyes stare at him, unblinking and wide with piqued intrigue. 

Finally, when it feels like they’ve been standing there for hours (it’s been all of thirty seconds, but again, Richie’s high _and_ a bit dramatic), the stranger in question gapes and squeaks, “you’re _high_?” as if it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard in his entire life. 

Richie squints at him, but can’t think of anything to say, so he simply shrugs his shoulders in response. 

“It’s Tuesday!” Pringles Thief scoffs.

“I know. I’m a regular ol’ delinquent,” Richie admits with a snort.

At this point, the three of them are shivering and Soft and Handsome man looks like he’s ready to scoop his friend up and whisk him away so they can disappear into the warmth of a dorm somewhere. Richie steps forward to omit this from happening. He can’t leave until he gets what he followed them for.

In a slight panic, he digs into the deteriorating pockets of his windbreaker and blindly searches for the loose change he knows is in there. Earlier that night, prior to meeting up with Bev, he shoved a five dollar bill and some quarters into the right pouch. Getting the munchies when he’s high is not a foreign concept to him by any means (recall his pact with Stan). “Here, I will give you five dollars and,” he stops to count the change in his hand, “fifty-seven cents for them. And then I’ll be out of your hair. Promise!” 

A pair of dark, but neatly plucked eyebrows fly up into a very precise hairline, “is this really happening right now?” he bemuses with a settling frown.

“Eddie—” his friend starts to say, but then the bell rings from inside the store and the harsh, tired voice of Beverly Marsh cuts through like a knife does a cake.

“Richard Tozier, what the absolute fuck are you doing?” 

Richie tenses, gives a bashful smile and slowly turns around to face his very agitated best friend. “Trying to get my Pringles?” he tries in a small voice. If there’s anything he’s completely and totally terrified of (though he’ll never admit it), it’s an angry Beverly Marsh. 

With crossed arms and an expectant foot tap, Beverly’s eyes flit between who Richie now knows is Eddie and Eddie’s friend. “Jesus Christ, I already bought you a can of the pizza flavor. Leave this poor kid alone,” she demands with a sigh, and reaches for his elbow. And then, she gives an expression much softer than the one she had previously been sporting as she turns to face Eddie and his handsome friend. “Sorry, he’s kind of a pest. I would blame it on him being high, but unfortunately he is this embarrassing all of the time.” 

Jaw dropping and arms crossing his chest defensively, Richie narrows his eyebrows and thoroughly glares at Beverly. How dare she embarrass him in front of the cutest boy he’s ever laid eyes on! And his beautiful friend, too! 

“It’s okay,” Eddie says warily. He looks to his friend and it seems that they have some kind of unspoken conversation for a brief moment, before Eddie takes a step forward. His fingers are quick to wrap around the can of Jalapeño Pringles, and then he takes it out of the plastic bag. “We can just trade. I don’t mind the Pizza flavor anyway.” 

If Richie was in the clouds before, he’s fucking soaring up in space now. He’s floating amongst the god-damn stars. This tan-skinned, freckly cheeked, embodiment of the word _soft_ is the kindest person he’s ever met. On top of being the prettiest. He’s about to cry. Seriously, there are tears. 

Beverly shakes her head before Richie can say anything, knows that whatever response he conjures up will be a dumb one. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m sorry this idiot chased you guys down for them. I’m not as quick high as I am sober—I’m usually better at keeping an eye on him.” 

Eddie laughs at this, like, a little breathless giggle that is basically the equivalent to a chorus of angels singing. Richie’s not even religious, but the sound of Eddie laughing is almost enough to convert him. 

“Seriously, he—you can have them,” he turns to Richie now, who has been stunned into silence since the second Beverly stepped outside, “they’re not even for me,” he admits. “Our friend—“ he gestures between him and Handsome man, “sent us to get food. We’re trying to study for our psych exam,” he kind of rambles then, but stops himself as soon as he notices. 

Richie’s interest has quadrupled at the mention of a psych exam. “Who do you have?” He blurts, and if he’s being completely honest he’s kind of forgotten that Eddie is handing the container of Pringles to him. Beverly hasn’t, though, so she gently takes them from Eddie with a thankful (and exasperated) nod and gives him the pizza flavored ones in return. 

“Ivan,” Eddie tells him easily as if they weren’t just having the strangest conversation in the history of strange conversations prior to this.

At this, Richie’s eyes brighten and his lips spread wide into a glowing grin. He throws his arms into the air and practically shouts “well, whaddya know! I have that old bastard, too!” upon realizing that they share a professor. This information is probably something Eddie should have kept from Richie, who he doesn't know (but will soon come to find out) lacks the universal understanding of boundaries and will most definitely go out of his way to use this coincidence as a way to incessantly stalk him.

Behind Eddie, his friend has given up on trying to hide his laughs and Richie thinks, for just a split second, he sees a blush creep onto Eddie’s cheeks. And then he goes to say something, but is promptly interrupted by the dull sound of a cliche ringtone. With an apologetic smile, Eddie looks to the phone in his hand and bares his teeth with a wince. “Bill, before you—yes we got the snacks, oh my God—no I did not eat them all—Jesus, you know who you sound like? Yeah, I’m gonna say it. My mother, William. You sound like my mother!” and without so much as a wave goodbye, he and his friend disappear down the walkway and into the piercing cold night. 

“I love him,” Richie whispers affectionately, and turns to Beverly with a pouty lip. 

She gives him one in return and lovingly pats his head. Smooths back his hair and then hands him the Pringles container he doesn't even care about anymore. “Of course you do,” she answers knowingly and takes his frozen hand in hers.

They walk down the sidewalk in the direction of Beverly’s dorms, and Richie, finally, after all of his persistent whining and falling in love with a stranger wearing a cute sweater, opens his beloved Pringles and shoves a handful into his mouth. 

It's nowhere near as exciting as he thought it would be.

Later that night (or rather, early that morning), after Richie throws himself into bed, he pulls out his phone and issues a text to Bev, who he knows is still awake. He needs her, because he can’t stop thinking about Eddie and his stupidly big, brown eyes. Every time he closes his own, they are all he can see.

 **dick toes -** i miss him 

**my one and only mother -** u have a class at 9 am. go to sleep, richard. 

Richie scowls, and quickly thumbs out a response. 

**dick toes -** i hope i dream about him 

**my one and only mother -** i hope he runs away from u  <3

**Author's Note:**

> idk why or how this idea came to me, but i am so glad it did tbfh 
> 
> let me know ur thots!!! and if ur interested in me making this a series (i def will anyway but opinions are still valued) and come bother me on tumblr @ eddieklapback if u want in the meantime 
> 
> (this took me two and a half weeks to write please validate me)


End file.
